THIS TANGLED THING CALLED LOVE

Marie Astor, Author

Marie Astor and her new release, THIS TANGLED THING CALLED LOVE, are today's features. Marie  is a die-hard romantic who wholeheartedly believes in true love, which is why she writes in the contemporary romance genre. Marie is the author of contemporary romance novels. In addition to THIS TANGLED THING CALLED LOVE, Marie had written LUCKY CHARM, ON THE RIM OF LOVE, and a short story collection, A DRESS IN A WINDOW.

If you would like to learn more about Marie’s writing, please stop by her website: www.marieastor.com to sign up for book release updates and events or visit her on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/marieastorcollection

THIS TANGLED THING CALLED LOVE is a love story about finding one’s perfect match - sometimes following one’s heart is as convoluted as learning the steps of tango.

Here's the blurb for THIS TANGLED THING CALLED LOVE:

Twenty-eight-year-old Claire Chatfield has everything a girl could possibly wish for: looks, a promising career at New York’s top architectural firm, and an engagement ring from one of New York’s most eligible heir-bachelors! Life should be a dream, but when Alec Brunell, a sexy tango dancer, moves into the apartment one floor above from Claire’s, he unwittingly awakens Claire’s old insecurities, making her question her life choices. Will Claire brave her fears and allow herself to take a chance on Alec, or will she continue to play it safe?

In order to secure his place as his father’s successor, thirty-three-year-old David Lawson must settle down with a wife befitting the future head of Lawson Enterprises - and who could fit the prerequisite better than the stunningly beautiful and incredibly bright Claire Chatfield? There is just one glitch – David Lawson is in love with another woman – a Hollywood Legend Claudia Block.

A successful tango instructor, Alec Brunell has never lacked for women’s attention, but he finds himself at a loss when faced with his downstairs neighbor, Claire Chatfield. Upon hearing of his occupation, most women swoon with desire, but Claire runs for the door. Still, her iciness only adds fuel to his fire, as Alec is determined to change Claire’s view of him.

THIS TANGLED THING CALLED LOVE is a love story about finding one’s perfect match - sometimes following one’s heart is as convoluted as learning the steps of tango.

Here's and excerpt from THIS TANGLED THING CALLED LOVE:


Back in the safety of her apartment, Claire locked the door behind her. Her face was burning crimson red – she had never lost control like this before.
She stumbled into the kitchen and put on the coffee pot – she was too rattled up to go back to bed now. Mechanically, she poured cereal into a bowl and splashed some milk over it. Taking a bite of her cereal, she cringed as she replayed the encounter in her mind – she could not remember the last time she had been this flustered. She liked to think of herself as a fairly rational person, and yet, just now she had behaved like a complete maniac. First, she had burst into a total stranger’s apartment, and then, she ogled his naked, incredibly muscular torso – at this thought Clair cringed again, hoping that her new neighbor had not noticed this lapse, and then, after he had tried to make small talk despite her unexpected appearance in his apartment, she nearly screamed at him for playing his music too loud. And to top it all off, after he had sincerely apologized, she snubbed his perfectly good-natured offer of a cup of coffee.
Reliving the memory of her embarrassing behavior was enough to make Claire burrow her face in her hands and pull on her hair. She was a grown woman and she knew how to handle tough situations. What on earth made her act like this? Sure, Alec’s devastatingly handsome looks could have been an explanation, but Claire knew full well that it was not the answer. A part of her wished it had been the answer – that would have made things so much simpler. But Claire was in love with David Lawson, and she was not the kind of woman who got smitten by a six-pack, no matter how hard, or dark eyes, no matter how piercing. No, the true reason lay in the music – the sultry, maddening tango music.

Books by Marie Astor:

THIS TANGLED THING CALLED LOVE – a contemporary romance about overcoming one’s inhibitions, learning to tango, and finding one’s true match.
http://www.amazon.com/This-Tangled-Thing-Called-ebook/dp/B0078IPNCW/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1339771760&sr=1-3&keywords=mARIE+aSTOR

LUCKY CHARM – a humorous contemporary romance about love, luck and friendship.
http://www.amazon.com/Lucky-Charm-Contemporary-Romance-ebook/dp/B005BZL3L4/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1336842915&sr=8-1

ON THE RIM OF LOVE – a contemporary romance about the unexpected power of love.
http://www.amazon.com/On-Rim-Love-Contemporary-ebook/dp/B005TOWI7K/ref=pd_sim_kstore_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2

A DRESS IN A WINDOW – a collection of short stories about love, coincidences, and fate.
http://www.amazon.com/Chance-Encounter-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B004E112TO/ref=pd_sim_kstore_5?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2


Social Media Links:

Website: http://www.marieastor.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/marieastorcollection

GoodReads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4665230.Marie_Astor

Twitter: @marieastor



Thanks for stopping by!

MOM WARNED ME...

Do you have those days where you do something and then cringe at the results? Then, inside your head you hear your mom’s voice saying, “How many times have I told you not to do that?”

No matter how old I am, there are times this happens. Case in point, this evening. I was sitting in the church parking lot waiting to meet a friend so we could car pool to book club.  I was a tiny bit early, so I parked in the shade and put my legs on the seat to read while I waited. I saw a tiny smudge on one leg of my slacks and brushed it off. Then I spotted a loose thread, down near the hem. Before I thought about it, I pulled the string. Yep, you guessed it...the hem unraveled. Totally unraveled.

My mom told me never, ever pull a loose thread. Cut it. Knot it. Never tug on it. I know this. I’ve known it since I was a kid. I plead distraction, momentary insanity, a really bad week. And suddenly I feel ten years old with my mom telling me I should have listened to her.

In a panic, because this friend for whom I’m waiting is always perfectly groomed and neat plus this is the first time she’s come with me to book club, I rummaged in my glove box for anything to repair this hem. Flashlight, no help.
Ice scraper, it’s 90 degrees outside.
Auto instruction book, useless on this occasion.
Post it Notepad, I don't think so.
Scotch tape....hmmm, worth a try.

I am my car doing contortions to mend this hem before my friend arrives.

Note to self: Scotch tape will not stick to synthetic fabric.

Here I am in my car, not enough time to go home and change, not enough time to rush to a drug store for another remedy, nothing in my purse to help. Basically, I am stuck with my left slacks leg longer than the right. Maybe I can lean to the right...no, that won't help either.

Don't be alarmed for my sanity.  I do have a life so I'm not blowing this out of proportion. In the grand scheme of life, a sloppy hem is not a crisis. It’s embarrassing, but world peace is not threatened. This will not add to global warming. No animals will be harmed because of it.

It’s just so annoying to do something stupid, then remember the gazillion times my mom warned me not to do that very thing.

I’m sure nothing like this ever happens to you, does it?

Thanks for stopping by!

SAD NEWS ABOUT THE WHITE BUFFALO CALF

White Buffalo Calf Nursing

Fair warning: Today I don’t have a happy or cheerful blog. Regular readers of this blog may remember last year when I reported the birth of a white buffalo calf to a Lakota Sioux-owned buffalo herd in Hunt County, Texas.  The chance of a white buffalo birth is reported to be 1 in 10,000,000. This white buffalo was heralded as a symbol of unity and understanding, a gift from the Great Spirit and celebrated with a pow wow worthy of a spiritual symbol. It was a joyous event for the Lakota and others alike.

The buffalo herd is owned Harvey Little Soldier, who says he is the great-great-grandson of Sitting Bull. However, Little Soldier said that while he owns the herd, the white buffalo belonged to people everywhere. Members of the herd circled the white calf when strangers were near, protecting this special calf in a way they did not act toward other calves.

This spring while the Little Soldier was away for three days, a person or persons viciously shot the calf and his mother. Not for meat, but left to be discovered by Little Soldier on his return. These animals were kept in a back pasture for their protection, yet someone knew where they were grazing. Because the Lakota Sioux owner was only away a short time, someone must have premeditated this hateful crime. Whether it was personal against Little Soldier, against Native Americans, or an act of stupid vandalism is unknown. However, the Hunt Count Sheriff and his deputies and Homeland Security agents are treating it as a racist hate crime. To date, $55,000 reward is offered for clues leading to conviction of the perpetrators.  Because some of your have commented on this terrible event, I decided to include the information in a blog.

Painting of White Buffalo Calf Woman

                             Legend of the White Buffalo Calf Woman


The story goes that she appeared to two Lakota warriors. These two warriors were out hunting buffalo, hunting for food in the sacred Black Hills of South Dakota, and they saw a big body coming toward them. And they saw that it was a white buffalo calf. As it came closer to them, it turned into a beautiful young Indian girl.

That time one of the warriors thought bad in his mind, and so the young girl told him to step forward. And when he did step forward, a black cloud came over his body, and when the black cloud disappeared, the warrior who had bad thoughts was left with no flesh or blood on his bones. The other warrior kneeled and began to pray.

And when he prayed, the white buffalo calf who was now an Indian girl told him to go back to his people and warn them that in four days she was going to bring a sacred bundle.

So the warrior did as he was told. He went back to his people and he gathered all the elders and all the leaders and all the people in a circle and told them what she had instructed him to do. And sure enough, just as she said she would, on the fourth day she came.

They say a cloud came down from the sky, and off of the cloud stepped the white buffalo calf. As it rolled onto the earth, the calf stood up and became this beautiful young woman who was carrying the sacred bundle in her hand.

As she entered into the circle of the nation, she sang a sacred song and took the sacred bundle to the people who were there to take of her. She spent four days among our people and taught them about the sacred bundle, the meaning of it.

She taught them seven sacred ceremonies.

One of them was the sweat lodge, or the purification ceremony. One of them was the naming ceremony, child naming. The third was the healing ceremony. The fourth one was the making of relatives or the adoption ceremony. The fifth one was the marriage ceremony. The sixth was the vision quest. And the seventh was the sundance ceremony, the people's ceremony for all of the nation.

She brought us these seven sacred ceremonies and taught our people the songs and the traditional ways. And she instructed our people that as long as we performed these ceremonies we would always remain caretakers and guardians of sacred land. She told us that as long as we took care of it and respected it that our people would never die and would always live.

When she was done teaching all our people, she left the way she came. She went out of the circle, and as she was leaving she turned and told our people that she would return one day for the sacred bundle. And she left the sacred bundle, which we still have to this very day.

The sacred bundle is known as the White Buffalo Calf Pipe because it was brought by the White Buffalo Calf Woman. It is kept in a sacred place (Green Grass) on the Cheyenne River Indian reservation in South Dakota. It's kept by Dr. Arvol Looking Horse, a 19th generation Lakota Indian who is known as the keeper of the White Buffalo Calf Pipe.

When White Buffalo Calf Woman promised to return again, she made some prophecies at that time.

One of those prophesies was that the birth of a white buffalo calf would be a sign that it would be near the time when she would return again to purify the world. What she meant by that was that she would bring back harmony again and balance, spiritually.

Joseph Chasing Horse says the birth of a white buffalo is a sign from the Great Spirit and the ensuing age of harmony and balance it represents cannot be revoked. That doesn't mean, of course, that the severe trials Native Americans have endured since the arrival of Europeans on these shores are over.

"Mention that we are praying, many of the medicine people, the spiritual leaders, the elders, are praying for the world," says Joseph Chasing Horse. "We are praying that mankind does wake up and think about the future, for we haven't just inherited this earth from our ancestors, but we are borrowing it from our unborn children."  


I know the last line is not original with Joseph Chasing Horse, but isn't it true nonetheless?

White Buffalo Statue, Snyder Texas

What should have been a symbol of unity and understanding was destroyed by callous men. Senseless waste and pointless killing are always abhorrent. I cannot fathom the hatred and disrespect of someone willing to destroy something simply because it holds meaning for another person. I hope the culprits are caught and suitably punished. 

I promise to be cheerful on Friday.

Thanks for stopping by!

THANK YOU TO LOYAL READERS!

Last week when I offered readers the gift of a free copy of my new cozy mystery, DIGGING FOR DEATH, I belatedly realized there were terrible formatting problems. My sincere apology! I immediately corrected the error, but to atone I’m once again offering the book FREE. Yep, free cozy mystery giveaway Monday, June 11, through Tuesday, June 12 on Amazon Kindle. One thing I would very much appreciate is IF you like the book, please put a favorable review on Amazon. If you hate the book (how could you hate my baby?) then please keep it a secret except to email me why so I can perhaps correct any plot errors in the next book.

The book’s protagonist is Heather Cameron, 28-years-old, who manages her family’s garden center and landscape firm. Her master’s degree from Texas A&M qualifies her to do a great job, but she is compelled to prove herself to her grandparents. Heather’s parents died when she was eight, and her grandparents, Meg and Richard Gillentine, along with her great-grandmother, Elizabeth “Gigi” Gamble Gillentine, raised her. Helping Heather is her assistant manager, Miguel Diaz, and her shop manager and best friend, Chelsea Bedford. Heather is excited that she scored a plum landscaping job, but the client’s husband is the meanest man in town, Vance Rockwell. What a jerk he is.  

Here’s a blurb about DIGGING FOR DEATH:

Garden center manager Heather Cameron is DIGGING FOR DEATH to prove her old family friend, mentor, and employee, Walter Sims, is innocent of murdering the meanest man in town. Heather can’t trust the police to find the real killer when all clues point to poor Walter. The dead man was beaten to death with Walter’s shovel several hours after they were overheard arguing, and the two men had a long history of enmity. Walter definitely looks guilty, but Heather is sure—well, almost positive—okay, she certainly hopes her friend and mentor is innocent.
  Heather is compelled to scour the fictional North Central Texas town of Gamble Grove to exonerate her old friend. She’s encouraged when the new police detective in town, Kurt Steele, shows interest in helping her look for clues. The deeper Heather digs into the dead man’s life, the more she justifies his ruthless reputation. Walter is indicted, but police begin to suspect the victim’s stepson as murderer. Heather is convinced the stepson couldn’t have murdered anyone either—although it’s clear no love was lost between the two men. The attempted murder of the victim’s real son creates a new twist. Can Heather solve the murder without becoming the killer’s next victim?

Here’s an excerpt:

Lining the Rockwell’s drive nearest the new garden plot were a fire engine, an ambulance, a van, what was probably an unmarked police car, two black and whites and—dang, wouldn't you know it?—the Gillentine Gardens truck. The muscles in my stomach were like vise grips clenched on my insides as I drove past the other vehicles and parked. Sickly dread overwhelmed me at what I might find.

I wanted to turn my car around and drive home and run up to my bed and pull the covers over my head. No such luxury for me. I climbed out of my car and strode quickly toward the crowd, swallowing down fear’s metallic taste in my mouth.

Container rose bushes destined for Bootsy Rockwell's garden almost filled the garden center’s staked-bed truck. Miguel Diaz sat on the truck’s bed with his feet dangling off the end. Steve Harris sat beside him. Bad vibes shot through me. A uniformed policeman and another man stood talking to Miguel. Miguel looked ashen and ill, but he nodded to me. Steve said nothing, merely hung his head.

"Hello, Heather." Miguel shook his head, despair evident in his sad brown eyes. "It's really bad."

"What's happened?"

The officer turned to me. "You know the whereabouts of Walter Sims?"

"He's supposed to be at the garden center. What's happened?" I repeated my question.

Steve looked up, but said nothing.

Miguel looked as if he were trying to send me some sort of signal. "Heather, it's—“

The man in plainclothes quieted Miguel with a glance as he stepped forward. Good heavens, what a giant. Must be six-four with shoulders broad as our truck. Even a long, tall Texas gal like myself had to look up to meet his gaze.

Whoa. What a gaze it was. Worried and puzzled as I was, I couldn’t fail to notice his eyes were delphinium blue and his dark hair the color of moist peat moss was cut short. He wasn’t GQ handsome, but definitely attractive.

"I take it you're Miss Cameron? I'm Detective Kurt Steele and this officer is Sergeant Jack Winston. We need to ask you a few questions."

"Not until I know what's happened. Why are you questioning Mr. Diaz and Mr. Harris?" Darn, stress must have fried my mind. I couldn’t believe I refused a detective.

"Vance Rockwell was murdered early this morning with Walter Sim’s shovel. We want to speak with Mr. Sims. No one here seems to know where he is.” He paused. “Do you?"

Rockwell dead and Walter missing? Panic rose with the bile in my throat.

No, please don’t let Walter be the killer.

At that moment, paramedics wheeled a gurney bearing a black body bag past the truck and loaded it into the ambulance. Oh Lord, Rockwell dead from Walter’s shovel? And Walter hated him.

Carole King was in my head, and the earth really did move. Dropping away from my feet, leaving me drifting. The sky tumbled down. Swirling, everything was swirling. Spiraling around me. I thought I might throw up or pass out—or both.

The detective stepped forward and grabbed my arm, anchoring me in the mixed up universe. "Miss Cameron? Maybe you should sit on the truck by Diaz and Harris."

But the sky still tumbled, the earth spiraled around me. I was a kid spinning until I was drunk with dizziness.  Sky flipped places with earth. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

"Yes...Yes, I’d better." With Detective Steele's help, I staggered to the truck. I shrugged off his hand intent on levering myself onto the bed. But I stood there as if in a trance. The detective hoisted me up onto the truck s if I were a kid. I sat there wondering if I were going to pass out.

I felt Miguel’s hand at my neck. “Your head, put it between your knees.”

I did as he instructed, closing my eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths. When I straightened, my head was throbbing but the earth and sky had resumed their correct positions.  Sky above, earth below.
Willing my eyes to focus on the detective, I insisted, "Walter wouldn't bash in anyone's head." I prayed I spoke the truth.

Detective Steele referred to his notes. "It appears he and Mr. Rockwell had a heated argument yesterday about a quarter of five. Mr. Sims stalked to the truck—“he pointed at Steve”—where Harris waited, and peeled off."

Drat Walter, coming here when I’d ordered him to stay at the garden center. "If you consider anyone who argued with Rockwell a suspect, you'll be interviewing half the state." I almost included myself but thought better of it. "Besides, you said Walter left."

Sergeant Winston said, "Maybe he returned."

"Phffft." I peered at Detective Steele. "Sounds like you’re grasping at straws. What kind of detective work is that?"

Steele's clenched jaw displayed a small tic.

Oops, I shouldn’t have said that.

He stood directly in front of me and glared. "We just started the investigation. If we had some cooperation, maybe we could wrap this up in time to buy donuts before we take our lunch break."

Way to go, Heather. Not a good idea to annoy the police.

I took another deep breath. At this rate, I’d soon hyperventilate. “There’s no need for sarcasm. I don't know where Walter is, but I know he wouldn't kill anyone, not even Vance Rockwell."

He raised his eyebrows, making his nice blue eyes more noticeable, darn him. "Not even? What does that mean?"

"Rockwell was not a popular man. I imagine you'll find a long, long list of people with motives, detective. Leave Walter alone." I glanced at Miguel slumped beside me and patted his shoulder. "Leave all my employees alone. None of them would have done such a thing."

Detective Steele poised his pen over his notebook. "Where were you just after midnight, Miss Cameron?"

I thought again about his nice blue eyes, but pushed those thoughts aside because of his nasty question. "In my apartment. Asleep."

He raised one eyebrow.

I shot him a glare. "Alone."

"So, you have no alibi?"

"People who live alone never have an alibi. That doesn't mean they're guilty of anything more serious than drinking juice from the carton."

He pulled out a business card and handed it over. "We'll be in touch. Call me if you hear from Mr. Sims."

"Can Mr. Diaz and Mr. Harris go?"

Detective Steele nodded. Miguel and Steve slid off the truck bed to the ground, and Miguel helped me down. While they walked to the truck's cab, the detective speared me with another no-nonsense glare.

"If you hear from Walter Sims, you'll be doing him a favor if you convince him to call us. We need to talk to him, and the sooner the better."

I turned and walked back to my Honda. My heartbeat fluttered and my throat threatened to close so I couldn’t breathe. I was afraid I wouldn’t make it to the car, but I climbed in and turned the ignition.

Here’s the link:
http://www.amazon.com/DIGGING-Heather-Cameron-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B0086PAIDK/ref=sr_1_22?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1338736184&sr=1-22

The next book in the series is DIGGING FOR BONES, but it’s probably not going to be released until 2013. However, I do plan to release DIGGING FOR DEATH in print in the very near future.

And if you enjoy mysteries with a sheriff protagonist, you might also enjoy ALMOST HOME, a Link Dixon mystery.
http://www.amazon.com/Almost-Home-Dixon-Series-ebook/dp/B005J865J8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1339192012&sr=1-1

Happy reading! Thanks for stopping by!

A ROGUE REFORMS INTO A HERO!

What inspires a writer to create a particular book? I wish I could tell you in precise terms. The idea for THE MOST UNSUITABLE HUSBAND originated because of my desire to continue the Kincaid story from THE MOST UNSUITABLE WIFE, and Sarah was the younger sister in that book. I needed a hero worthy of a very proper, shy, self-conscious young woman who loved helping those less fortunate than herself.

Wait! This is romance, so I needed someone opposite Sarah, otherwise where’s the challenge?  I had this vague idea but he just wouldn’t talk to me. One Sunday in church (unfortunately, during the sermon), the hero popped into my head fully formed and I had to take notes right then. Apologies to our minister, who probably thought I was making notes from his excellent sermon.

In a sense I was. He spoke on the complete change we undergo when we embrace a life enriched by faith. As an example, he used Nathaniel/Bartholomew, who took a new name to signify his change. In those moments, my hero became Nathaniel Bartholomew. Nate is a tortured soul who doesn’t realize that hidden inside lurks a wonderful man worthy of redemption.

Nathaniel Bartholomew

Authors hate bad reviews, especially if the criticism was unjustified. One such bad reader review on Amazon said Nate was “beyond redemption.” I refuse to believe that. In my books, bad boys can learn, can reform, and can move on to a fulfilled life of happiness. And they will continue to do so!

Here’s the blurb for THE MOST UNSUITABLE HUSBAND:
Sarah Kincaid wants only the simple things: a home, a family, and a place in the community where she can set a good example and lead a moral life. She launched her plan by establishing a school for the poorest children in the county. When she discovers that the terms of her mother’s will have made her the owner of a saloon, she is surprised. Even more shocking, is Sarah’s reaction to Nate. He is the son of her mother’s husband and his real name is Nathaniel Batholomew, but he uses Barton in his con game with the Kincaids and their neighbors. Tall, dark and unmistakably tempting, Nate is a gambler by trade--and hardly an upright citizen.

Taking in a trio of starving orphans on the run from an unsavory gang is hardly the way to conduct a romance. Sarah and Nate soon learn that the only proper thing to do under the circumstances is to let love take them where it will, and get ready for a passionate adventure. Sarah vows to reform him and finds him an eager pupil. Reforming a rogue is easier said than done and Sarah and Nate learn a great deal about themselves and others in their journey!

Excerpt of THE MOST UNSUITABLE HUSBAND: If you don’t often read books from the 1885 time period, perhaps I should explain that in “respectable” hotels, single men were never given a room on the same floor as single women and families. Here's the excerpt:

That man in black--he'd introduced himself as Nathaniel Barton--had been at the cemetery. He was always around on the boat, too, and now he was here in their hotel in Memphis. He trailed behind her as if he hadn't a care in the world. Surely it was coincidence. Lots of people traveled from St. Louis to Memphis every day.
The porter stopped in front of a room and opened the door. He stood back for her to enter, but not before she saw Mr. Barton at the next door. He even glanced her way and smiled as he nodded his head in greeting.
My stars, he's staying in the very next room to mine.
What kind of hotel would allow a single man on the same floor as a single woman? She fought down panic as she dealt with the porter, then locked the door behind him and slid the bolt. Alone in her room, her imagination ran its course as she paced. Had she strayed into a den of iniquity?
No, that couldn't be. Mrs. Welborn assured her this was a family hotel suitable for a young woman. After all, the Welborns registered here, too. How did Mr. Barton come to be in the very room next to her? It wasn't proper. What would people think? What would they say?
She caught herself. The Welborns were the only people here she knew, and she hardly cared what they thought other than their reports back to the Vermillions and Aunt Lily. Even they could hardly blame her for the hotel's room assignments.
This Mr. Barton could not mean her harm. There'd been ample opportunity on the paddle wheeler had he intended to hurt her. They'd never had a conversation on a personal level. His comments had centered on the trip and the weather, not a hint of anything improper and always with others nearby. Perhaps his constant presence was a coincidence. Just the same, he made her nervous. She felt like a rabbit waiting for the wolf to pounce whenever Mr. Barton was near.
In the midst of her concern, she admitted his presence offered reassurance to her that she was protected from others. Surely he would rush to her aid if she needed assistance. Her instincts proved right regarding Mr. Welborn. Perhaps she should rely on intuition in this instance. She wished she were more decisive, not a victim of warring emotions.
She raised her skirt and checked the little double-shot derringer given her by her brother, Storm. Best to be prepared. The little gun still rested securely in its garter holster on her thigh. Storm had insisted she practice until she was a fair shot. Would she have the courage to use the weapon against a human? She doubted it, but its weight reassured her.
Sarah spied the door connecting her room with the one in which Mr. Barton resided. Rushing to check the lock, she stopped. She must not let him know she suspected him of following her. Very slowly she turned the knob of the connecting door. Locked. She released a heavy sigh.
Curiosity nudged her. Kneeling, she peered through the keyhole. The opening framed him as he pulled a fresh shirt from an open valise on the bed. Shucking his jacket and waistcoat, he took a pistol from his waistband and placed it on the bed beside the satchel. He unbuttoned his shirt.
She knew she should move away but couldn't. Oh, my stars!  He might dress like a riverboat dandy, but this gorgeous man was no weakling. Trouser fabric pulled taut against trim hip muscles when he turned and bent over the things on the bed.
Her mouth went dry as a Texas dust storm. She watched him turn back to face her. He removed his shirt and tossed it behind him on the bed. Then she saw the bandage across his shoulder and another at his waist. She wondered which side of the law he was on when he got those, but thought she knew. The wrong side, of course.
He picked up a fresh shirt and she caught the ripple of muscles across his chest as he slipped the shirt on. His movements were swift and powerful, not the sluggish ambling she had witnessed in public.
Occasionally in summer she had caught glimpses of her brother, her brother-in-law, and the hands at the ranch with their shirts off. Unlike their tanned torsos, Mr. Barton's pale skin made her fingers tingle to touch the brown chest hair that converged in a vee at his belt. She wondered how far below his waist the pelt descended. A pool of warmth gathered at the base of her stomach.
My stars, what disgraceful thoughts!
Where did they come from? They weren’t proper. No, not at all suitable. Being away from home must be having a poor effect on her.
Never before had such scandalous ideas entered her head about any man. She didn’t have these thoughts about Peter Dorfmeyer, and everyone expected her to marry Peter. Mr. Barton was the most attractive man she’d ever seen, but she must get her wayward thoughts under control.
Buttoning his shirt, Mr. Barton stepped from her view. When he returned and glared at the keyhole, she froze. Surely he couldn't know she watched him. She sank further to the floor and sat with her back against the door.
Sarah pressed her hands to heated cheeks, shocked at her own behavior. She was no better than a window peeper. What on earth had come over her?
A sudden thought assailed her. What if he planned to look through the keyhole as she had? Taking a hanky from her cuff, she draped it over the doorknob so it hung across the tiny opening. No, that wouldn’t do. It kept sliding off. She rose and opened her traveling bag and took out a shirtwaist. Hanging it on the knob, she stepped back. Perfect. It looked as if she used the handle for a hook.
She crossed to the vanity. Not taking time to change from her traveling suit into a dress, she contented herself with pushing stray hair back into her chignon and grabbing her shawl. With any luck, she could purchase her train ticket while her neighbor had his dinner.
Sarah walked briskly to the train station. A line greeted her at the ticket window. Oh, well, she loved watching people, so she wouldn't mind the wait. Taking her place in the row, she surveyed the other prospective passengers wandering to and fro. She studied the clothes of other women, compared them to her own black clothing. In her head she made up stories of who they were and where they might be headed.
A young boy bumped with a wham into the man in front of her. The child's hand darted into the man's pocket and out with a flash and secured the lifted wallet under his shirt. Probably no more than seven or eight, the lad wore the dirtiest clothes Sarah had ever seen. His hair might have been blond at one time, but it and his skin had gone a long time without touching soap and water.
"Oh, excuse me, sir." The boy's large blue eyes were the picture of innocence when he gazed up at the man.
Sarah gasped. What should she do? She couldn't bring herself to cause a scene by screaming, but neither could she stand by and let the child rob this man.
"Steady, you little ragamuffin.” The victim placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Slow down and see you're more careful next time.”
"Yes, sir, sorry. I will, sir.” The boy moved swiftly away into the crowd.
Sarah took off after the little thief. He looked over his shoulder and she motioned to him. His eyes widened in alarm and he ran. She gathered her skirts and rushed after him, weaving around groups of people.
When she had almost caught up with the light-fingered boy, she thudded against a solid wall of chest.
Mr. Barton grunted and clutched Sarah's shoulders, then dropped his hands and made a slight bow. "Why, I believe it's Miss Kincaid, is it not? Are you in some sort of distress?"
"No, it was nothing.” She peered over his shoulder but the thief was nowhere in sight. "I thought I saw someone I knew, but I was mistaken.” She felt her cheeks flush again with guilt. Their collision must have jarred his injured chest, but she couldn't ask him about it. How could she explain that knowledge?
"Your traveling companions--Welwoods or Welworths--are they with you?"
"No. The Welborns were tired and planned to have dinner sent to their room.” She thanked heavens for that. Eating with the odious Mr. Welborn soured her stomach. But now this man who, for all appearances, followed her everywhere had neatly trapped her. A shiver of apprehension skittered down her spine, but she stood mesmerized by his tawny eyes.
As if he sensed her fear, he offered a crooked smile and proffered his` arm. "May I escort you back to the hotel?"
"I was..." she stopped. Her nerves jangled with alarm, but she strove to appear calm. She preferred buying her ticket in private. If he hadn't yet learned where she headed, she didn't want him to know her exact destination. "That would be very kind, um, Mr. Barton.”
"Bit cool this evening, isn't it?"
My stars, didn't the man ever talk about anything but the weather? Maybe he was one of those gorgeous physical specimens with the brain of a rock.
She sighed and answered, "Yes, there's a chill in the air. I suppose we're in for more winter.”
What should she do? Panic turned her stomach in knots. She should send him on his way, but didn't know what to say or do. Hating herself for her timidity, she once more flowed with the easiest course and allowed herself to be escorted back to the hotel.

There you have my teaser. The last book of the Kincaids will be about Storm, and I expect to release it in 2013. In the meantime, here are the buy links for THE MOST UNSUITABLE HUSBAND:
Smashwords at
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/37792?ref=CarolineClemmons
Amazon at
http://www.amazon.com/MOST-UNSUITABLE-HUSBAND-Kincaids-ebook/dp/B004M8T1D8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1339188156&sr=1-1

Thanks for stopping by!

A VISIT TO CHANDOR GARDENS, WEATHERFORD TX

Weatherford TX Courthouse

Weatherford is a city in Parker County, Texas, United States,a western suburb of Fort Worth, and part of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex. Nicknames are Cutting Horse Capital of the World and Peach Capital of Texas. I confess I do not know if these nicknames were bestowed by the Weatherford Chamber of Commerce, or because of the town's reputation.

When I first moved to the western edge of the Metroplex my mom's friends from Lubbock kept asking her if I’d toured Chandor Gardens in Weatherford yet. Until they did, I'd never heard of Chandor Gardens. And there's a reason. For many years the gardens were closed and in a state of disrepair. One courageous and preservation-minded couple, Charles and Melody Bradford, stepped in and restored the grounds, then sold the property to the City of Weatherford. This spring, I learned that the gardens were having a special discounted-price open house, and Darling Daughter 2 and I attended. We're both fans of discounts, gardens, tours, and goofing off in general. A first trip to Chandor Gardens for each of us, we were pleased to tour this beautiful property.

But that’s the shortened version. Here’s a more complete story.

Douglas Chandor painting

Douglas Granvil Chandor was born 20 August 1897 to Lucy May (Newton) and John Arthur Chandor in Surrey, England. World War I began a few months after he completed his education at Radley, and at seventeen he joined the Life Guards, First Regiment of Household Cavalry. Later, he served as a member of the celebrated Scottish Lovat Scouts.

In 1918 Chandor was discharged from the Scouts after contracting typhoid and severely damaging his knee. He recuperated in Surrey, then pursued his childhood interest of art. In 1919, he received his first major commission, to paint Sir Edward Marshall-Hall, K.C. When it was displayed at the British Royal Academy Exhibition, the portrait attracted further offers for the young artist, including a commission to paint the Prince of Wales, a work he completed in 1921. The painting drew "half of London" to the Grieves Gallery. Two years later Chandor accepted an invitation to portray the prime ministers of the British empire at work during the Imperial Conference held in London at 10 Downing Street.

View of Japanese bridge

Included among the invitations was a request to paint President Herbert Hoover, Vice President Charles Curtis, and the entire cabinet. Chandor's painting of Hoover, combined with his earlier portraits of British aristocrats, established his reputation as a painter of the world's political leaders. During his career he painted about 300 portraits. Significant subjects included President Gerardo Machado y Morales of Cuba, Prime Minister Winston Churchill, Queen Elizabeth II, Samuel T. (Sam) Rayburn, and President Franklin Roosevelt. His portrait of Eleanor Roosevelt is believed to be the only one for which she formally posed; he also painted Sara Delano Roosevelt and the wives of James and Elliott Roosevelt.

Spirea (bridal wreath) and arbor

Chandor was divorced from Pamela (Trelawny) in 1932 and married Ina Kuteman Hill of Weatherford, Texas, in 1934. He returned with his wife to her native city where they lived in the family mansion. I love living in Texas, so please don't misunderstand me, but I've been to England. Talk about culture shock for Douglas Chandor. After the green of his native country, his first glimpse of Northwest Central Texas must have been a killer, but perhaps having "a family mansion" helped soften the blow, no disrespect intended. For the rest of his career Chandor spent half of each year in New York and the remaining time in Weatherford. He developed the grounds of his estate into a showplace that the Chandors named White Shadows Gardens. 

Tiered fountain

The house, which sat on a hill overlooking the city, was surrounded by an elaborate network of walls that enclosed an array of plants and trees, Chinese pagodas, a Japanese water garden, and a miniature replica of Mount Fujiyama. To most, this chalky hill in North Central Texas would seem an unlikely place for a garden of such imagination and splendor. Although his claim to fame was his talent as an artist, Douglas found his real passion as a gardener. He once told Ina that his talent for painting was merely a means that enabled him to fulfill his dreams of building a "living artwork". Douglas Chandor's destiny would be to turn these dreams into a reality.

I was pleased the Koi show up in my photo.

The gardens were carved from 4 acres of rock-hard terrain that was once a cow pasture. The project began in 1936 with the aid of picks, shovels, dynamite and mule-drawn plows. Truckloads of topsoil and tons of boulders were brought in to transform the barren cactus-dotted property into a peaceful haven enclosed by hedges and walls. Chandor devised a series of garden rooms, each with individual character and stunning views, all connected by meandering walkways. His creation combines the styles and ambiance of Chinese and English gardens with such delights as fountains, grottos, and even a mountain waterfall.

Mount Cox waterfall

Another view of Mount Cox that shows
cave-like grotto behind waterfall
(sorry about too much sun)

The Chandors worked tirelessly together in the gardens until Douglas' death from a cerebral hemhorrage after returning from a trip in 1953. Ina renamed them Chandor Gardens as a tribute to her husband. The gardens remained open to the public until shortly before her death in the late 1970s. Because there were no direct heirs, the property remained unattended, overgrown and deteriorating for 20 years.

Half of Dragon fountain

Charles and Melody Bradford purchased the estate in 1994 and took on the enormous task of restoring the gardens and home. In what could only be described as a true labor of love, they painstakingly spent years clearing and cleaning away the debris of decades of neglect. Many large old trees, Douglas' original wisteria and boxwood plantings, and his magical hardscapes remained. Everything else was replanted by the Bradfords, and thanks to their efforts Chandor Gardens was once again transformed into a lush tranquil delight.

Stone of the Immortals,
sculpted by  Douglas Chandor. This
was my least favorite feature.

In time, the Bradford's had completely restored the property and decided to sell and offered the gardens to the City of Weatherford. They must have given the City a really good deal, because Weatherford  purchased Chandor Gardens in May 2002. After minor renovations necessary for compliance with the American Disabilities Act and City building codes, Chandor was re-opened to the public in the fall of 2002.

I know they're everywhere, but purple
iris were my mom's favorite flower

The gardens are available for public and private tours. The gardens along with the Chandor mansion are available for rental, and are popular venues for wedding ceremonies and receptions, photography, meetings, and special events...and for just strolling through for photos and relaxation..A walk in a garden is always time well spent!


Thanks to Wikipedia, http://www.ci.weatherford.tx.us/index.aspx?NID=457
and http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/fch17

Thanks for stopping by!

FORMATTING PROBLEMS CORRECTED ON DIGGING FOR DEATH! TODAY ON KINDLE!

Yesterday, the first day DIGGING FOR DEATH was free, Cassie kindly notified me my formatting was screwy. So sorry if you're one of the people who downloaded it! Now, the formatting has been corrected and it's ready to download and read for FREE.

Isn't free a wonderful word? And my cozy mystery, DIGGING FOR DEATH, is free today on Amazon! This is the first of the Heather Cameron mystery series. One thing I would very much appreciate is, if you like the book, please put a favorable review on Amazon. If you hate the book (how could you hate my baby?) then please keep it a secret except to email me why so I can perhaps correct any plot errors in the next book.

Heather
Cameron

The book’s protagonist is Heather Cameron, 28-years-old, who manages her family’s garden center and landscape firm. Her master’s degree from Texas A&M qualifies her to do a great job, but she feels compelled to prove herself to her grandparents. Heather’s parents died when she was eight, and her grandparents, Meg and Richard Gillentine, along with her great-grandmother, Elizabeth “Gigi” Gamble Gillentine, raised her. Helping Heather is her assistant manager, Miguel Diaz, and her shop manager and best friend, Chelsea Bedford. Heather is excited that she scored a plum landscaping job, but the cordial client’s husband is the meanest man in town, Vance Rockwell. What a jerk Rockwell is, and Heather isn't the only one in town who thinks so.

Here’s a blurb about DIGGING FOR DEATH:

Garden center manager Heather Cameron is DIGGING FOR DEATH to prove her old family friend, mentor, and employee, Walter Sims, is innocent of murdering the meanest man in town. Heather can’t trust the police to find the real killer when all clues point to poor Walter. The dead man was beaten to death with Walter’s shovel several hours after they were overheard arguing, and the two men had a long history of enmity. Walter definitely looks guilty, but Heather is sure—well, almost positive—okay, she certainly hopes her friend and mentor is innocent.
  Heather is compelled to scour the fictional North Central Texas town of Gamble Grove to exonerate her old friend. She’s encouraged when the new police detective in town, Kurt Steele, shows interest in helping, but Kurt warns her away from her own investigation. She doesn't believe the police will exonerate Walter without her assistance. The deeper Heather digs into the dead man’s life, the more she justifies his ruthless reputation. Can Heather solve the murder without becoming the killer’s next victim?

Here’s an excerpt:

Lining the Rockwell’s drive nearest the new garden plot were a fire engine, an ambulance, a van, what was probably an unmarked police car, two black and whites and—dang, wouldn't you know it?—the Gillentine Gardens truck. The muscles in my stomach were like vise grips clenched on my insides as I drove past the other vehicles and parked. Sickly dread overwhelmed me at what I might find.
I wanted to turn my car around and drive home and run up to my bed and pull the covers over my head. No such luxury for me. I climbed out of my car and strode quickly toward the crowd, swallowing down fear’s metallic taste in my mouth.

Container rose bushes destined for Bootsy Rockwell's garden almost filled the garden center’s staked-bed truck. Miguel Diaz sat on the truck’s bed with his feet dangling off the end. Steve Harris sat beside him. Bad vibes shot through me. A uniformed policeman and another man stood talking to Miguel. Miguel looked ashen and ill, but he nodded to me. Steve said nothing, merely hung his head.

"Hello, Heather." Miguel shook his head, despair evident in his sad brown eyes. "It's really bad."

"What's happened?"

The officer turned to me. "You know the whereabouts of Walter Sims?"

"He's supposed to be at the garden center. What's happened?" I repeated my question.

Steve looked up, but said nothing.

Miguel looked as if he were trying to send me some sort of signal. "Heather, it's—“

The man in plainclothes quieted Miguel with a glance as he stepped forward. Good heavens, what a giant. Must be six-four with shoulders broad as our truck. Even a long, tall Texas gal like myself had to look up to meet his gaze.

Whoa. What a gaze it was. Worried and puzzled as I was, I couldn’t fail to notice his eyes were delphinium blue and his dark hair the color of moist peat moss was cut short. He wasn’t GQ handsome, but definitely attractive.

"I take it you're Miss Cameron? I'm Detective Kurt Steele and this officer is Sergeant Jack Winston. We need to ask you a few questions."

"Not until I know what's happened. Why are you questioning Mr. Diaz and Mr. Harris?" Darn, stress must have fried my mind. I couldn’t believe I refused a detective.

"Vance Rockwell was murdered early this morning with a shovel owned by one of your employees. We want to speak with Walter Sims. No one here seems to know where Mr. Sims is.” He paused. “Do you?"

Rockwell dead and Walter missing? Panic rose with the bile in my throat.
No, please don’t let Walter be the killer.

At that moment, paramedics wheeled a gurney bearing a black body bag past the truck and loaded it into the ambulance. Oh Lord, Rockwell dead from Walter’s shovel? And Walter hated him.
Carole King was in my head, and the earth really did move. Dropping away from my feet, leaving me drifting. The sky tumbled down. Swirling, everything was swirling. Spiraling around me. I thought I might throw up or pass out—or both.

The detective stepped forward and grabbed my arm, anchoring me in the mixed up universe. "Miss Cameron? Maybe you should sit on the truck by Diaz and Harris."

But the sky still tumbled, the earth spiraled around me. I was a kid spinning until I was drunk with dizziness.  Sky flipped places with earth. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

"Yes...Yes, I’d better." With Detective Steele's help, I staggered to the truck. I shrugged off his hand, intent on levering myself onto the bed. But I stood there as if in a trance.

The detective hoisted me up onto the truck as if I were a kid. I sat there wondering if I were going to pass out.

I felt Miguel’s hand at my neck. “Your head, put it between your knees.”

I did as he instructed, closing my eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths. When I straightened, my head was throbbing but the earth and sky had resumed their correct positions.  Sky above, earth below.
Willing my eyes to focus on the detective, I insisted, "Walter wouldn't bash in anyone's head." I prayed I spoke the truth.

Detective Steele referred to his notes. "It appears he and Mr. Rockwell had a heated argument yesterday about a quarter of five. Mr. Sims stalked to the truck—“he pointed at Steve”—where Harris waited, and peeled off."

Drat Walter, coming here when I’d ordered him to stay at the garden center. "If you consider anyone who argued with Rockwell a suspect, you'll be interviewing half the state." I almost included myself but thought better of it. "Besides, you said Walter left."

Sergeant Winston said, "Maybe he returned."

"Phffft." I peered at Detective Steele. "Sounds like you’re grasping at straws. What kind of detective work is that?"

Steele's clenched jaw displayed a small tic.

Oops, I shouldn’t have said that.

He stood directly in front of me and glared. "We just started the investigation. If we had some cooperation, maybe we could wrap this up in time to buy donuts before we take our lunch break."

Way to go, Heather. Not a good idea to annoy the police.

I took another deep breath. At this rate, I’d soon hyperventilate. “There’s no need for sarcasm. I don't know where Walter is, but I know he wouldn't kill anyone, not even Vance Rockwell."

He raised his eyebrows, making his nice blue eyes more noticeable, darn him. "Not even? What does that mean?"

"Rockwell was not a popular man. I imagine you'll find a long, long list of people with motives, detective. Leave Walter alone." I glanced at Miguel slumped beside me and patted his shoulder. "Leave all my employees alone. None of them would have done such a thing."

Detective Steele poised his pen over his notebook. "Where were you just after midnight, Miss Cameron?"

I thought again about his nice blue eyes, but pushed those thoughts aside because of his nasty question. "In my apartment. Asleep."

He raised one eyebrow.

I shot him a glare. "Alone."

"So, you have no alibi?"

"People who live alone never have an alibi. That doesn't mean they're guilty of anything more serious than drinking juice from the carton."

He pulled out a business card and handed it over. "We'll be in touch. Call me if you hear from Mr. Sims."

"Can Mr. Diaz and Mr. Harris go?"

Detective Steele nodded. Miguel and Steve slid off the truck bed to the ground, and Miguel helped me down.

While they walked to the truck's cab, the detective speared me with another no-nonsense glare.
"If you hear from Walter Sims, you'll be doing him a favor if you convince him to call us. We need to talk to him, and the sooner the better."

I turned and walked back to my Honda. My heartbeat fluttered and my throat threatened to close so I couldn’t breathe. I was afraid I wouldn’t make it to the car, but I climbed in and turned the ignition.

Here’s the link:
http://www.amazon.com/DIGGING-Heather-Cameron-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B0086PAIDK/ref=sr_1_22?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1338736184&sr=1-22

The next book in the series, DIGGING FOR BONES, is scheduled for early 2013 release.

Thanks for stopping by!

ART IMITATES LIFE, MOSTLY

Kevin Costner as Anderson "Devil Anse" Hatfield

Like many history fans, I watched the recent mini-series on the Hatfields and McCoys. The acting was phenomenal, the costumes and sets were remarkable. I could hardly wait for the next episode. Even though I knew the story, I kept hoping both sides would make peace and quit killing one another. Once again I was reminded how foolish pride and petty hatred can distort and destroy lives and cause inconceivable pain. Why isn't common sense the least bit common?

Hatfields

As a writer, I use universal truths like those in the Hatfield and McCoy mini-series to create stories that I hope entertain and encourage. That most of my stories hold moral lessons is also true. As an author, I champion the good in men and women, ridicule and punish the shallow and senseless.

Not that the lessons can be obvious. Nope, I hope to sneak them in when readers are concentrating on the plot. ;-D  Often evil doers believe themselves above the law and unconquerable. In my books, those people are always caught...eventually. I wish that were always true in life, but it sometimes happens. Let’s go with that, shall we?

While I try to vary plots with each book, my books tend to have several common themes: redemption, good defeats evil, love overcomes obstacles, and personal fulfillment. But I don’t want readers to dwell on them, other than to sigh with relief when love conquers all, the broken heart is healed, the hardened heart cracks and welcomes love, characters achieve fulfillment, and those obstacles blocking characters’ happiness have been defeated. What I desire is that readers fall in love with my characters and think of them as real people (as they are in my mind) and want to read my next book. Nothing makes this author happier.  

THE MOST UNSUITABLE WIFE is about a marriage of convenience that blossoms into a true love match. The idea for the book came from a tiny kernel in the form of a story my grandmother once told me about a girl in her hometown who quit school because of all the rumors and teasing she was forced to endure. Although my grandmother didn’t know what happened to the girl, I wanted the poor girl’s story to end well. Each of us deserves happily ever after, right?

If you’ve ever lived in a small town, you know there are no secrets. A person with evil in his heart frequently forgets that fact and does terrible things to conceal what everyone already knows. Most of the book takes place in Texas, but a part is set in Tennessee in a small village like that in which my grandmother lived as a child.

Here’s the blurb from THE MOST UNSUITABLE WIFE:

Wanted: one completely improper bride.

Even if Drake Kincaid had placed such an advertisement in every paper in the country, he couldn’t have found a better candidate than Pearl Parker...which is fine with him. After all, his parents’ will stipulates only that he marry by his thirtieth birthday, not that he marry well. And no one--including Drake’s grandfather, the man determined to hold him to the ridiculous provision--could possibly think tall, bossy Pearl with her ragtag siblings and questionable “cousin” Belle will make a good wife. Until Drake realizes that in her startling violet eyes he sees a beautiful woman with a generous soul...

Their life together may not have started with hearts and flowers, but Drake and Pearl will soon learn that real love--with a breathtaking dose of passion--will make their marriage a true romance.

Excerpt from THE MOST UNSUITABLE BRIDE:

"What do you mean, stay here?”
Pearl had wakened cocooned in the hazy glow following a night of intermittent lovemaking with her husband to find him dressing for the ranch. Then he dropped a bombshell on her.
"You know it's not safe for you to be on your own. Ranch is too isolated. You'll be safer here in town.” Drake stomped his feet to settle each in the boots he wore. He retrieved a blue chambray shirt from his bag and donned it.
"For how long?” Pearl slid from bed and grabbed her nightgown from the floor.
"Well..."
She whirled on her husband, confronting him, "You never intended for me to move to the ranch, did you?” She yanked her nightie on. No one could argue buck-naked.
"Don't get riled. Women hate the seclusion. You'll be happier in town. Things to do here and people about you.” Drake shoved his shirt into his twill pants without looking at his wife.
She stepped toward him and pointed at her chest. "What do you know about what makes this woman happy?"
A crooked smile broke his face. "Aw, I know what makes you happy, all right. Didn't I keep you happy all night?"
She shrugged away the comment aimed to distract her. "Did you ask me which I prefer? No.” She hoped her glare chilled his randy hide.
His voice softened, placating. "Pearl, be reasonable. We don't know who's tried to kill you and your family. Someone might be trailing you right now, waiting somewhere and watching the house.”
He met her gaze. That muscle twitched in his cheek, letting her know he was less than happy with this conversation. Well, that didn't bother Pearl in the least. Some things needed talked about.
He walked over and put his hands on her shoulders, then took a deep breath and continued,  "Look, the sheriff and his deputy as well as several of the town's leading citizens will be looking out for any newcomer. I talked to the owners of the livery stable, the hotel, the mercantile, all the places I could think of that a newcomer would stand out. If any strangers come around asking questions, the sheriff will find out immediately. You and Sarah will be safer here."
"You're taking Storm with you?” She hugged her arms, sensing a lost battle.
"Yes, um, with your permission. I can't see him attending teas or shopping here in town. Besides, he's a big help to me."
Her head came up and her hands fisted at her hips. "And I suppose Sarah and I are just so much baggage?"
"Now, I didn't say that and you know it.” He held up a hand, palm out, as if to stay her fury. "But you have no place rounding up cattle and getting ready for a drive."
"It's true we don't ride, but we could learn.” She could learn anything, given a chance. She suspected no chance would come.
"There's no time to teach you. 'Sides, it makes the cowboys and vaqueros nervous to have women around the cattle. They think it's bad luck. And I can't leave the two of you at the house with only the housekeeper to help you."
She sagged in defeat. "Okay, Drake. I'll stay here for now, and I'll try not to shame you. But this is only until we know there'll be no more meanness against my family. Don't think you can keep me waiting too long," she warned.
His face broke into a smile of relief. "You'll see. By the time this is over and things calm down, you'll like this sweet life so much you won't be able to tear yourself away from Grandpa's house."
"Too much sweet gives a body a belly ache."
Ignoring that and stepping close, he kissed her on the cheek then nuzzled her neck. "I'll be sleeping tonight in a bedroll on hard ground. Give me a kiss to remember."
Something to remember. She'd give him something to remember all right. She raised her mouth to his, let him plunder with his tongue. Her tongue did some plundering of its own as she moved her body against him. When their kiss ended, the heat of passion darkened his eyes.
"When you're sleeping on the hard ground, all alone, you remember that, husband.” Head high, she turned and walked into the dressing room.

THE MOST UNSUITABLE WIFE is Book One of the Kincaids, and is available for only 99 cents from Amazon
http://www.amazon.com/MOST-UNSUITABLE-WIFE-Kincaids-ebook/dp/B004OR1VOO/ref=sr_1_7?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1338514599&sr=1-7 and from
Smashwords at
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/37683?ref=CarolineClemmons.

Book Two of the Kincaids is THE MOST UNSUITABLE HUSBAND, and is also available for 99 cents. Book Three is not yet written but is tentatively titled TEXAS STORM. I hope to release it in 2013.


Thanks for reading!

BOOK REVIEW - CATCH OF THE DAY

CATCH OF THE DAY
By Kristan Higgins
Winner of the 2008 RITA

One of my BFFs attended a conference where Kristan Higgins spoke, and raved about her. So, I checked out one of her books, and have to agree with my friend.

Maggie Beaumont has inherited a diner from her grandfather, much to her mother’s horror. While Maggie’s twin has married a doctor and has a baby, Maggie is single at 32. Worse, she has been publicly humiliated by her ex, then humiliates herself when she publicly announces she’s fallen in love. Gideon’s Cove, Maine is a small town, and no one will let her forget her faux pas. Not only that, since hers is the only decent place to eat in Gideon’s Grove, she sees the man she can’t have daily. Does Maggie mope and complain? No.

Maggie is a kind, compassionate woman who feeds people in her diner, then bakes food for the poor, for shut ins, and for just about every group in town for free. She serves on committees. She pays her cook more than she does herself because he has five kids. Her beloved dog Colonel has a special spot behind the counter in her diner and is her constant companion. This heroine is so admirable she makes saints look like slackers. The one person in town who never sets foot inside the diner is a local fisherman, Malone, tagged Maloner the Loner.

Nothing will satisfy Mrs. Beaumont for her daughter unless Maggie snags her own doctor immediately. Instead, Maggie’s curiosity is aroused by Malone. Heavens, no one even knows his first name, and he won’t tell her. The two have one magical day together before everything gets even crazier.

CATCH OF THE DAY is filled with snappy dialogue and terrific characterizations. I enjoyed this book a great deal. I felt the end was a bit rushed, but it was the correct ending. This was a fun (with one sad part), fast-paced read that I would highly recommend to anyone who loves a good romance.

Thanks for stopping by!

LAUNCHING MY NEW COZY MYSTERY SERIES!

Thanks for stopping by to help me celebrate the launch of my new Heather Cameron cozy mystery series, DIGGING FOR DEATH.  I am beyond excited that this book is now available for readers. While it’s only at Amazon Kindle for now, I’ll be releasing it in print as soon as possible. So, pour yourself your beverage of choice (alas, mine is a cup of hot tea) and join me while I tell you about Heather and her family.

Heather Cameron

Heather’s great-great grandparents helped found the town of Gamble Grove north of Dallas on Highway 75. Gamble Grove is only a real town in my imagination. It’s near where Van Alstyne and Anna are on the map. My dad was born nearby at Pilot Grove and my own maternal great grandparents were named Gamble, hence the name Gamble Grove. Like real towns in the area, Gamble Grove is rapidly growing and fighting to retain its small town charm as it copes with expansion.

Heather’s grandfather founded Gillentine Gardens and Landscape Design. In spite of the usual big box type stores that come with growth, customers are loyal to Gillentine Gardens. Heather, who majored in horticulture and landscape design at Texas A&M University, also holds a B.S. in business. She is a sharp young woman. The death of her parents when she was eight resulted in her being raised by her maternal grandparents and great grandmother. One of her mentors has been Walter Sims, who had been a good friend of her dad’s and worked for her grandfather. Now Grandpa Gillentine has retired and put Heather in charge of the business. Her best friend, Chelsea Bedford, works for Heather in the garden center shop. Heather's overall assistant manager is Miguel Diaz, a man so reliable and loyal that he receives a percentage of the year's profits.

Here’s the blurb for DIGGING FOR DEATH:

Garden center manager Heather Cameron is DIGGING FOR DEATH to prove her old family friend and employee, Walter Sims, is innocent of murdering the meanest man in town. Heather can’t trust the police to find the real killer when all clues point to poor Walter. The dead man was beaten to death with Walter’s shovel several hours after they were overheard arguing, and the two men had a long history of enmity. Walter definitely looks guilty, but Heather is sure—well, almost positive—okay, she certainly hopes her friend and mentor is innocent.
  Heather is compelled to scour the fictional North Central Texas town of Gamble Grove to exonerate her old friend. She’s encouraged when the new police detective in town, Kurt Steele, shows interest in helping her look for clues. Or, is Kurt just interested in spending time with Heather?
The deeper Heather digs into the dead man’s life, the more she justifies his ruthless reputation. Walter is indicted, but police begin to suspect the victim’s stepson as murderer. Heather is convinced the stepson couldn’t have murdered anyone either—although it’s clear no love was lost between the two men. The attempted murder of the victim’s real son creates a new twist. A chance observation at dinner after the reading of the murdered man’s will slips the last piece into the crime’s intricate puzzle. Can Heather solve the murder without becoming another victim? (Of course she can...it's her series!)

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Here’s an excerpt of DIGGING FOR DEATH:

     Lining the Rockwell’s drive nearest the new garden plot were a fire engine, an ambulance, a van, what was probably an unmarked police car, two black and whites and—dang, wouldn't you know it?—the Gillentine Gardens truck. The muscles in my stomach were like vise grips clenched on my insides as I drove past the other vehicles and parked. Sickly dread overwhelmed me at what I might find.
     I wanted to turn my car around and drive home and run up to my bed and pull the covers over my head. No such luxury for me. I climbed out of my car and strode quickly toward the crowd, swallowing down fear’s metallic taste in my mouth.
     Container rose bushes destined for Bootsy Rockwell's garden almost filled the garden center’s staked-bed truck. Miguel Diaz sat on the truck’s bed with his feet dangling off the end. Steve Harris sat beside him. Bad vibes shot through me. A uniformed policeman and another man stood talking to Miguel. Miguel looked ashen and ill, but he nodded to me. Steve said nothing, merely hung his head.
     "Hello, Heather." Miguel shook his head, despair evident in his sad brown eyes. "It's really bad."
     "What's happened?"
     The officer turned to me. "You know the whereabouts of Walter Sims?"
     "He's supposed to be at the garden center. What's happened?" I repeated my question.
     Steve looked up, but said nothing.
     Miguel looked as if he were trying to send me some sort of signal. "Heather, it's—“
     The man in plainclothes quieted Miguel with a glance as he stepped forward. Good heavens, what a giant. Must be six-four with shoulders broad as our truck. Even a long, tall Texas gal like myself had to look up to meet his gaze.
     Whoa. What a gaze it was. Worried and puzzled as I was, I couldn’t fail to notice his eyes were delphinium blue and his dark hair the color of moist peat moss was cut short. He wasn’t GQ handsome, but definitely attractive.
     "I take it you're Miss Cameron? I'm Detective Kurt Steele and this officer is Sergeant Jack Winston. We need to ask you a few questions."
     "Not until I know what's happened. Why are you questioning Mr. Diaz and Mr. Harris?" Darn, stress must have fried my mind. I couldn’t believe I refused a detective.
     "Vance Rockwell was murdered early this morning. We want to speak with Walter Sims. No one here seems to know where Mr. Sims is.” He paused. “Do you?"
     Rockwell dead and Walter missing? Panic rose with the bile in my throat.
     No, please don’t let Walter be the killer.
     At that moment, paramedics wheeled a gurney bearing a black body bag past the truck and loaded it into the ambulance. Oh Lord, Rockwell dead from Walter’s shovel? And Walter hated him.
     Carole King was in my head, and the earth really did move. Dropping away from my feet, leaving me drifting. The sky tumbled down. Swirling, everything was swirling. Spiraling around me. I thought I might throw up or pass out—or both.
     The detective stepped forward and grabbed my arm, anchoring me in the mixed up universe. "Miss Cameron? Maybe you should sit on the truck by Diaz and Harris."
     But the sky still tumbled, the earth spiraled around me. I was a kid spinning until I was drunk with dizziness.  Sky flipped places with earth. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.
"Yes...Yes, I’d better." With Detective Steele's help, I staggered to the truck. I shrugged off his hand intent on levering myself onto the bed. But I stood there as if in a trance.
     The detective hoisted me up onto the truck s if I were a kid. I sat there wondering if I were going to pass out.
     I felt Miguel’s hand at my neck. “Your head, put it between your knees.”
     I did as he instructed, closing my eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths. When I straightened, my head was throbbing but the earth and sky had resumed their correct positions.  Sky above, earth below.
     Willing my eyes to focus on the detective, I insisted, "Walter wouldn't bash in anyone's head." I prayed I spoke the truth.
     Detective Steele referred to his notes. "It appears he and Mr. Rockwell had a heated argument yesterday about a quarter of five. Mr. Sims stalked to the truck—“ he pointed at Steve ”—where Harris waited, and peeled off."
     Drat Walter, coming here when I’d ordered him to stay at the garden center. "If you consider anyone who argued with Rockwell a suspect, you'll be interviewing half the state." I almost included myself but thought better of it. "Besides, you said Walter left."
     Sergeant Winston said, "Maybe he returned."
     "Phffft." I peered at Detective Steele. "Sounds like you’re grasping at straws. What kind of detective work is that?"
     Steele's clenched jaw displayed a small tic.
     Oops, I shouldn’t have said that.
     He stood directly in front of me and glared. "We just started the investigation. If we had some cooperation, maybe we could wrap this up in time to buy donuts before we take our lunch break."
     Way to go, Heather. Not a good idea to annoy the police.
     I took another deep breath. At this rate, I’d soon hyperventilate. “There’s no need for sarcasm. I don't know where Walter is, but I know he wouldn't kill anyone, not even Vance Rockwell."
    He raised his eyebrows, making his nice blue eyes more noticeable, darn him. "Not even? What does that mean?"
     "Rockwell was not a popular man. I imagine you'll find a long, long list of people with motives, detective. Leave Walter alone." I glanced at Miguel slumped beside me and patted his shoulder. "Leave all my employees alone. None of them would have done such a thing."
     Detective Steele poised his pen over his notebook. "Where were you just after midnight, Miss Cameron?"
     I thought again about his nice blue eyes, but pushed those thoughts aside because of his nasty question. "In my apartment. Asleep."
     He raised one eyebrow.
     I shot him a glare. "Alone."
     "So, you have no alibi?"
     "People who live alone never have an alibi. That doesn't mean they're guilty of anything more serious than drinking juice from the carton."
     He pulled out a business card and handed it over. "We'll be in touch. Call me if you hear from Mr. Sims."
     "Can Mr. Diaz and Mr. Harris go?"
     Detective Steele nodded.
     Miguel and Steve slid off the truck bed to the ground, and Miguel helped me down.
     While they walked to the truck's cab, the detective speared me with another no-nonsense glare.
"If you hear from Walter Sims, you'll be doing him a favor if you convince him to call us. We need to talk to him, and the sooner the better."
     I turned and walked back to my Jetta. My heartbeat fluttered and my throat threatened to close so I couldn’t breathe. I was afraid I wouldn’t make it to the car, but I climbed in and turned the ignition.

I hope that excerpt tempted you to buy DIGGING FOR DEATH. It’s available from
Amazon Kindle at
http://www.amazon.com/DIGGING-Heather-Cameron-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B0086PAIDK/ref=sr_1_23?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1338171621&sr=1-23

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